


Loose Ends

by showmethebeefy



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Cheesy, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, brief references to Fargo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:33:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2458364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/showmethebeefy/pseuds/showmethebeefy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Reservoir Dogs. Sort of a fix-it fic. Elaborates on how at least some people survived, and what happened next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loose Ends

**Author's Note:**

> I know I said I was done ficcing until I was done with my ITF challenge and my prep for NaNoWriMo but WHOOPS. Anyway, here's an indulgence to my favorite movie like ever. And for those wondering, yes, I do occasionally subscribe to the theory of Mr. Pink=Carl Showalter from Fargo. Enjoy!

It was over. It was over and Freddy knew it. He let Mr. White put the gun barrel against his face. Anything that happened to him, oh god, he deserved all of this bullshit. Every bit. He let Larry--Mr. White, he reminded himself--shoot those cops, he shot that poor woman… He deserved this, dying like the rat he was, bleeding out all over the floor of a fucking warehouse. Gun cool, pressed against his cheek, by Mr. White, who had believed him, trusted him enough to tell him his name. Freddy deserved this.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, words coming so hard. Had he punctured a lung? He didn’t know. He could barely feel anything anymore. He could feel Larry’s--Mr. White’s hand on his face, moving gently. Freddy clung to the floor of the warehouse, to Mr. White, grasped at the air, thinking about all the brave heroes he’d read about. He tried to be brave like them, but all he could think of was how bravely the cons and criminals he had worked with had gone about their business.

Something wet, on his face. He heard a animalistic noise and looked up. Larry was--Mr. White was crying. Mr. White was crying? Why was he crying? Freddy had an excuse, he was dying down here, but why was Larry…?

Freddy wanted to say something but there was a gun against his cheek and he felt clogged with sticky blood. It felt like it was rising in his throat. Larry was trembling; Freddy could feel the gun shivering against his face, wavering, as if Larry was having trouble deciding if he really should pull that trigger.

Then the cops--where had they been this whole time, while Freddy bled out all over the warehouse floor and Marvin was tortured and murdered?--burst through the door, and Larry’s hand jumped, and Freddy felt a bullet rip through his face. His cheek torn open, jaw possibly fractured due to the bullet, he fell sideways off Larry’s lap onto the floor of the warehouse, into a slick pool of his own blood.

More gunshots, and Freddy turned just in time to see bullets ripping through Larry’s torso. He turned toward the entrance, and saw cops flooding in, pointing their guns every which way. And finally, finally, he passed out due to blood loss.

* * *

He woke up in a hospital. Dull ache on his face, gauze wrapped around his cheek, jaw bound shut. He felt pain sharply shoot through his body as he attempted to look around wildly. His stomach, he felt with his hands, was closed up. He was still alive.

Was Larry alive? That was the only question on his mind. He needed to know. He couldn’t see any nurses around, and there was no one by his bedside. Even if there was, he couldn’t have asked, not until his jaw healed.

Six weeks, he was told. Six weeks until he could speak and move his jaw properly again, and then he would have to testify in court. Freddy couldn’t help it; his eyes widened, and he made a little noise in his throat. If he had to testify, that had to mean someone was alive. Maybe, if it were Larry, he could dispel some of his guilt over causing Larry’s possible death. Sure, Larry would go to prison, but the man was a tough old bastard. He would do alright. He would never forgive Freddy, but that, he deserved.

* * *

The six weeks passed, and Freddy could speak again. He had gone over what he would say in court with the prosecuting attorney. He was ready.

When the day came, he put on a dark suit and a skinny tie. Stark black and white, like he had worn on the day. Someone had managed to keep his sunglasses on hand, which he was thankful for. He went into the courtroom looking like he had before he had been shot. Before he had shot an innocent woman.

Freddy couldn’t bring himself to look around and see anyone until he’d taken the oath, was on the stand. He removed his sunglasses and looked around, preparing to answer whatever questions were asked of him.

Larry wasn’t there. Just Mr. Pink, whatever his name was. Freddy felt something sink in his heart. Then the door creaked open and Larry was wheeled in. A wheelchair. Looked like the bullets had caused permanent spinal damage. Freddy drew in a breath. He was alive, that was what mattered.

Just then Larry looked up and saw Freddy on the stand. His eyes locked with Freddy’s, and Freddy suddenly felt very self-conscious. His hand went to the bullet wound scar on his cheek, feeling it gently. Locking eye contact with Larry, he suddenly felt an extreme sense of guilt.

When they began to question him he burst into tears and lied his ass off.

* * *

 Everyone got off scot free. Once Freddy had started lying, everything had gone downhill. Then Freddy quit the police force. It was funny. He used to want to uphold the law and do good for the public, but now, things were all different and jumbled up inside him. He blamed Larry.

The survivors moved on with their lives.

Freddy ended up moving to Mexico. He bought a little cottage on the coast, and started making boats. He was too young to be secluding himself from society, but it was too late for him, he figured, so he resigned himself to boats. He got better and better at it. And since he lived on the coast, he started fishing, and before he knew it, it was a regular profession. He could plaster the walls of that tiny cottage with as many nerdy posters as he wanted, and he was free to live however he wanted.

Mr. Pink, or Carl Showalter as Freddy came to know him to be, was still in the business. The man had moved to more small-town crime, and so far as Freddy knew, he was staying out of big trouble. The last time Freddy heard of him, he was heading to a small town in Minnesota, something about an easy kidnapping scam. After that, nothing. Nothing but a slowly aging newspaper article about a crime gone incredibly wrong.

And Larry? Well, there’s not much a middling-old man in a wheelchair can do with his life. For years, Freddy didn’t hear from him, until one day. There’s a knock on his door, and he swings it open, cautiously. And there he is.

“You wheel yourself all the way out here?” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. Larry gives him a look like he wants to hate him so badly but he just can’t. He’s too tired, too old, seen and done too much. He’s at a point in his life where he can’t delude himself anymore.

“Very funny, kid,” he says. “Now wheel me inside.” Freddy can see the smile on the edge of his mouth. It’s a silent victory. Freddy goes around outside and pushes the man through the door and onto the hardwood floor. There’s a dangerous bump when Larry rolls over the welcome mat, but other than that it goes off pretty smooth.

Silence passes, with nothing but the sound of wheels as Larry rolls around the floor, checking everything out. Freddy trails behind him, like a lost puppy, even though this is his own home.

“So what are you doing here?” Freddy finally asks. Larry gives him a weird look, like he’s gone insane or something.

“There ain’t much of an elsewhere I can go,” Larry replies, but it’s got to be more than that. The look on his face speaks volumes.

“Yeah, and?” Freddy folds his arms, waiting.

“And you only have one bed, and I am not sleeping on the couch.”

“That’s alright, you can sleep with me.” Freddy immediately mentally smacks himself after he says it. How dumb is he? So dumb. Super fucking dumb. He’s spent enough time contemplating his sexuality as he builds fucking boats that he’s got himself figured out by now.

Larry grins, like he just knows how amazing and terrible this is going to be. A part of Freddy that’s been knotted up all this time unties itself. Larry, by some dumb and extreme miracle, doesn’t hate him anymore. Perhaps even considers him a friend?

And that’s just it. The beginning of something beautiful. Freddy can’t help but think how fucking cheesy this is. It’s ridiculous. He can’t even begin to fathom how something like this could be happening. But here it is, and he wouldn’t turn it away for all the money in the world.


End file.
